


Honest Thoresia

by dragoninatrenchcoat



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen, innkeeper, just a nice chat in from out of the rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 10:32:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14542797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninatrenchcoat/pseuds/dragoninatrenchcoat
Summary: An over-skilled and over-titled hero named "Herm" elects to spend the night in a ragged inn rather than walk through the rain, and the innkeeper gets him to talk about his eclectic history.Tongue-in-cheek examination of "the Hero of Kvatch" as a character. Major spoilers for Shivering Isles and minor spoilers for the rest of the game.





	Honest Thoresia

Rain pounded against the walls and dripped in through the imperfectly-set wooden door to the inn. The dark nighttime clouds thundered out past the window, and a chill wind gusted in with the rainwater. Thoresia had placed a pile of rags just inside the door, not quite enough to stop the leak, but enough to prevent it from spreading to the rest of the inn.

‘Inn’ was a strong word for it. The room she looked after was small, with two wooden tables, a dying fireplace, and no food save for stale bread, a cask of ale she’d bought four weeks ago, and soup made from the herbs grown in the small garden out back. There were only two small bedrooms upstairs and Thoresia herself slept in a cot behind the bar. Really, the only protection the inn had from bandits was her own meager spellcasting—which amounted to nothing more than enough flame to light the fireplace every once in a while. She was fully aware that one day she’d lose everything, and she had plans for what to do when that day came. No big adventures or soul-searching or anything, just a plan.

She was dusting the shelves behind the bar when she heard the door open, letting in a burst of rain with her first customer in two days. Thoresia stood up and put her dusting rag on the bar, opening her mouth to welcome the newcomer to her inn.

“How much for a room?” he asked before she had the chance, his voice tired and monotone. He looked bedraggled; his chin-length blonde hair clung to his thinning cheeks, and the cloak he wore over his clothing looked dark and soaked through. There was a haggardness to his green eyes, too, a weariness that Thoresia suspected wouldn’t be solved by a good night’s rest. He looked Imperial, and, he seemed somewhere around her age, but something in his eyes made him feel far older.

“Ten gold,” she answered.

Silently, with a burden to his movements, the man fished out some coins from a pocket and placed a pile on the bar.

“Take the room at the end of the hall,” she told him, accepting the coins. “The nearer one leaks in the rain.”

The man nodded and turned toward the steps. Thoresia frowned a little, and leaned over the bar.

“Why not dry off by the fire first?” she called after him. “Sleeping in wet clothes is as uncomfortable as it is bad for the health.”

He stopped at the base of the staircase, turning his face back toward her. There was a scar near the base of his chin that she hadn’t noticed before. Was he an adventurer? He certainly wasn’t dressed like one.

“Alright,” he said then, with a breath as labored as if he was carrying the world. That told her more than anything else that sleep was not the type of rest he needed. Whatever was on this man’s mind, it would only worry him more when it came time to dream.

While he redirected himself to one of the wooden chairs closer to the fire, Thoresia headed over to set up the drying-rack around the crackling flames. She turned toward him.

“Your coat?” she asked.

He blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“To dry. You can’t sit by the fire in layers.”

After a few moments, he slipped off his enveloping black cloak, the heavy fabric weighed down by rainwater. Thoresia accepted it from him and draped it over the drying-rack, just so. Her fingers lingered on it; it was a good material, thick. Expensive. The type of material that would have taken quite a long time in the rain to get soaked through like this.

He sat back in the chair, wearing an odd sort of violet-goldish outfit. It looked to her like he was still wearing too many layers to get properly dry, but she’d reached the limit of asking him to disrobe without being rude.

“Ale?” she suggested. “One gold a mug.”

He looked at her then, for the first time. His eyes had been too vacant before, too weighed down by their own thoughts, to really look at her. “That’s the cheapest ale I’ve ever been offered.”

The remark made her smile. “You get what you pay for, I’m afraid.”

His chuckle, like everything else about him, was heavy and tired. “Sure, I’ll have one.”

Thoresia bustled over to the bar again, picked out the cleanest mug, and poured one. She was tempted to pour a second for herself, but firstly, she knew well by now not to drink around patrons, and secondly, it was bad form to eat the stock beyond what she needed.

When she brought him the mug, she saw a gold piece waiting for her on the table beside him. She picked it up and replaced it with the ale.

“What’s your name?” the man asked suddenly, just as she turned to leave. She stopped and faced him, though he was staring into the fire.

“Thoresia,” she told him. “Yours?”

He smiled a little at the question, as though there were some joke she wasn’t privy to. Then he said, “Herm.” He glanced over toward her, though not quite meeting her eyes again. “Why don’t you sit with me?”

She glanced back toward the bar, though she didn’t exactly have a swath of responsibilities at the moment. She’d be safe so long as she was sober and not _ too _ close to the patron, and the chair he gestured to was nearly on the other side of his table, just close enough to be equidistant from the fire.

She gathered her knitting supplies from the basket beside the fire and accepted the seat. Might as well get some work done. Luckily, his black cloak blocked most of the heat of the fire from this seat, or she’d have to back away. Unlike him, she wasn’t chilled to the bone from travelling through the rain at night.

“I take it you don’t get out much?” he asked her, holding the mug in one hand and looking into the fire.

Thoresia frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Most people seem to recognize me, that’s all. From one thing or another.”

“So you are an adventurer, then.”

His smile at that was wistful as he looked into the fire, almost nostalgic. “Yeah,” he said, then drank some of the ale and grimaced. “You really weren’t kidding.”

She chuckled at that. “They don’t call me Honest Thoresia for nothing.”

Herm glanced at her with his harried, slightly unfocused green gaze. “They do?”

Thoresia shrugged. “Those who know me.”

“Don’t you worry that being too honest will get you into trouble?”

“Hasn’t so far.” She glanced up at him from the beginnings of a blanket. “You should try it sometime. It might do you good.”

She saw a shadow pass over his features, and he looked back at the fire. “I don’t know about that.”

She studied him for a moment, then continued knitting, the soft  _ clacking _ of the wooden needles complementing the  _ crackling _ of the flames. “I don’t know what that weight is behind your eyes, but I know things like that don’t happen because you were too honest.”

He laughed a little, more like an exhalation than a real laugh, and examined his mug of ale before taking another sip—this time only slightly cringing at the taste. “Alright, Honest Thoresia who doesn’t get out much. I guess I can try it.”

She knitted for a few more moments, then looked up at him. “So,” she prompted, “what brings a man like you to my inn in the middle of the night?”

“The rain,” he answered flatly. His voice still sounded heavy, as though whatever he carried with him burdened down every aspect of himself.

“Really?” she asked, and Herm nodded.

“Really. I would have kept walking through the night if not for the rain.”

“What about sleep?”

To that, Herm shrugged. “I can take it or leave it.”

Thoresia raised an eyebrow at him. “You can take or leave sleep?”

“Yeah.” He waved a hand as though it meant little, and took another sip of ale.

She eyed him, but let it drop. “So where are you headed?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he answered.

“Doesn’t not having a destination make travel difficult?”

“It does,” he answered with a laugh—still not a real one, but closer to it than before. “I suppose I’m going back to Anvil.”

“You live in Anvil, then?” she prompted, flipping her fledgeling blanket over.

“Sort of. I have homes in every city, but I guess that one’s my favorite.”

She blinked at him then, surprised. A home in _ every _ city? Was that even possible? “Are you  _ from _ Anvil?”

At the question, his eyebrows furrowed slightly and his eyes unfocused again, staring into the fire. A slight frown developed in his thin mouth. Thoresia saw that the front of his hair was starting to dry.

He glanced over at her, catching her gaze, and let out a breath. “In the spirit of honesty? I’m not sure. I’ve never been able to figure it out.”

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head and started fiddling with something in one hand. “I’ve asked around a little, but really, I have nowhere to start. The first thing I remember is…” He stopped himself, and glanced at her. “Well… it’s a long story.”

Thoresia shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He squinted slightly, emphasizing premature wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Even you must have heard about the Oblivion crisis.”

“The gates, you mean, letting in those creatures last year?” She nodded. “Yeah. There was one just over the east hill. I kept watching it, watching the creatures that would wander around the crest of the hill. None of them got close enough to attack the inn. I would have defended it if they had, but I’m sure it wouldn’t have been enough.”

“Do you know how they were closed?”

“Not in so many words. I understand it has something to do with the emperor’s son.”

Herm nodded. “I’m a fast learner. I know that much. I knew… almost nothing at the beginning, just enough to get by, but I learn quickly through practice.”

“Learn what?”

“Anything,” he shrugged. “Swords, magic, how to wear armor, how to be stealthy.”

“Fighting things, you mean.”

“More or less.”

“No wonder you became an adventurer.”

He chuckled at that, a real chuckle, which made her smile. “Can you keep a secret, Thoresia?” he asked suddenly, nearly interrupting his own laugh. “Or does that go against your honesty thing?”

“Of course I can keep a secret. You don’t have to lie to keep a secret.”

“Oh? How?”

She smiled at him. “By telling people you have a secret. It isn’t a lie to tell people what you’re not going to tell them.”

His green eyes looked their most discerning then, meeting her gaze, burning a slight yellow at the edges with the reflection of the firelight. “Can you promise me never to tell another soul what I tell you tonight?”

“I promise.”

“Even if I confess to murder?”

“Even if you confess to the murder of your own children.”

Her frankness shocked him, which she took pride in. She knew how hard it was for a seasoned adventurer to be surprised, particularly by a common innkeeper. “Honestly,” she continued, nodding. “I live in this house and this house is my world. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done outside of it.”

“Doesn’t it matter?” he asked. “What if Imperial guards come in looking for me? Won’t you tell them where I am?”

“You’re assuming now they won’t see you outright?” she asked dryly, gesturing around the mediocre-sized room. “Anyway, Imperial guards are the worst kind of customer. They never pay and wind up breaking something half the time, usually a chair. I’d rather take stolen gold from an assassin.”

Herm raised his eyebrows at that, with a mirth she couldn’t place. “Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll trust you.”

Thoresia smiled and continued knitting.

“The first thing I remember is waking up in a jail cell beneath the palace in Imperial City.”

She should have expected this sort of thing from how he’d been talking, but she couldn’t help but glance up, appraising him. She could picture him in a jail cell, but it took a fair bit of imagination. It was the rich clothes that threw her off the most; wealthy people often avoided being punished for things.

“It was the day that Emperor Uriel Septim the Seventh was being assassinated. His escape from the assassins led straight through my cell, and in his rush, he granted me a sort of unofficial pardon. I’m not entirely sure why, but he asked me to find his son.” He waved his hand again. “Long story short, I found him, and helped him stop Molag Bal.”

Thoresia realized she’d frozen at the mention of Emperor Uriel Septim, and made herself relax. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Sometimes, I wish I were. You’ve heard of the Hero of Kvatch, haven’t you?”

“I suppose,” she shrugged. “It’s one of those names that goes around. The Hero of Kvatch, the Arena Grand Champion, the Hero of Bruma. One of those temporary celebrities for people to gossip about.”

Herm was laughing now,  _ real _ laughing, which made Thoresia grin despite herself as she looked over at him. “What?”

“All of those people are me.” His voice came through a touch lighter than before.

Thoresia pressed her lips together. “In the spirit of honesty?”

“I swear by each of the Nine,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I have not and will not lie to you tonight.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re the Arena Grand Champion?”

Herm nodded. “I am.”

“You look a little… thin to be a Grand Champion.”

His eyes became distant again, and he wore a fond smile. “I wasn’t thin when I first won the title. But believe me, if someone were to challenge me, I would still keep it.”

It wasn’t the first time Thoresia had found herself alone in this inn in the middle of nowhere with someone who could kill her without a thought, but she still found herself wishing she knew more than a simple flame spell. She began knitting again. “The Oblivion business ended over a year ago. I take it you haven’t been sitting on your fame and fortune this whole time.”

She glanced up to see him staring into the fire. It was like she’d distracted him, for a short while, from whatever had been bothering him, and now it had returned.

“No,” he said vaguely. “Actually, I turned to the Mages’ Guild. I was hoping their magical research could help me.”

A mage—that would explain his confidence at keeping his title. “And did it?”

Herm shook his head, but didn’t speak immediately. When he did, he said, “I have an odd sort of curse on me. I’ve never been able to figure out whether it is a real curse, whether it has to do with what I can’t remember, or if it’s just a joke from the Nine.”

“What’s that?” she felt obligated to say.

“I seem to be very good at…” he frowned. “Getting promoted.”

Thoresia raised an eyebrow at Herm. “That’s a curse?”

“Yes, it is. Because it defies all logic. Shouldn’t the Arch-Mage of the Mages’ Guild be, say, someone who’s devoted his entire life to the study, pursuit, and mastery of the arcane arts?”

She studied his face, though he still stared into the fire. “Are you trying to tell me you are Arch-Mage of the Mages’ Guild, too?”

“Yes.” He smirked. “Though I can’t determine whether it had more to do with luck or skill. Most of my advancements had less to do with magic and more to do with being able to survive dangerous situations.”

“Doesn’t being Arch-Mage have a lot of responsibilities?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he said dryly. “Most all of them are handled by the woman just below me. I’ve considered trying to pawn off the title but that’s easier said than done. Titles stick to me like glue.”

“You have more than those ones, I gather?”

Herm nodded. “I’m in favor of all of the Counts. I went from place to place for an entire year, doing what I could to help the people, but not particularly because I like helping people. More like…” He paused, thinking. “Like there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Do you think it has to do with what you can’t remember?”

He looked at her. “What?”

“Maybe something happened to you when you were young that drives you to help others.”

He seemed troubled at the suggestion, but nodded, taking another swig of ale. “Maybe. Mostly it just seems like… I’m the only one who _ can _ do these things. No one else is fearless enough, or I’m the only one who can survive them. I know I sound self-aggrandizing, but I’m trying to be frank. Like I said, I’m a fast learner, so I’ve picked up the skills I need not to die in all these different scenarios. But, really, most of what I do is simply what other people tell me to do. Then they... I don’t know. They promote me. Because I did what they asked. I still don’t really understand why.”

“That’s why you think it’s a curse?”

“Or something. Yeah.”

“Hmm.” She returned to her knitting. “So how much of your fame did you achieve on purpose?”

Herm chuckled. “Really, just the Arena Grand Champion. Once I realized I could fight, I went to the Arena to earn money. Everything else… sort of happened by accident. Even the Hero of Kvatch thing.”

“What other titles do you have?” Thoresia asked.

His chuckle was drier this time, weighed down by whatever was behind his eyes. “All of them,” he answered.

“Be more specific. You can’t have _ every _ title.”

“Oh, I can,” he argued, resting his elbow on the table. “Every one aside from Emperor and Count.”

“You’re telling me you run every guild in the kingdom.”

He nodded. “Every one.”

“That can’t be true. It takes years to master a trade—”

“Oh, but I don’t need to master anything, remember?” Herm interrupted, raising one finger toward her. “The curse. All I need to do is help a faction with their cause, and they promote me.”

“All the way to the top?”

“All the way to the top.”

Thoresia found herself shaking her head as she knitted. “You can be Arch-Mage and you can run the Fighter’s Guild, but you can’t in all honesty tell me that you’re at the head of the Dark Brotherhood, for instance.”

To that, Herm nodded toward the thick black cloak that lay drying on the rack by the fire. “Have you ever seen a cloak like that?”

She looked it over. “It’s a common style, but I’ve never seen the material before.”

“It’s enchanted,” he told her. “Hells, most everything I own is enchanted by this point. But that cloak in particular is only given to members of the Black Hand.”

“What’s that?”

“The highest level that you can become in the Dark Brotherhood.”

Thoresia leveled her gaze at him. “You’ve killed for the elite and mysterious assassin cult of Sithis? And managed to climb their ranks in under a year?”

“Curse,” he reminded her with a raise of his mug, which he then drank from.

She tutted, returning to her knitting. “Next you’re going to tell me that you’re the Gray Fox.”

It was silent for a moment, so she looked up to see him looking at her, his green eyes glittering knowingly, one eyebrow raised. She pointed a warning finger at him. “That one I’m not going to believe without proof.”

Herm shrugged, adopting a  _ you-asked-for-it _ expression, then placed his mug on the table and turned to dig through a rucksack he’d placed by his feet.

Despite herself, Thoresia leaned forward, following his motions with enraptured eyes. What he pulled out and placed on the table between them with an inarguable confidence was, unmistakably, the cowl of the Gray Fox. Even Thoresia recognized the image; no one was about to forget the infamous likeness of the most hunted thief in all of Tamriel, whether or not they believed he actually existed.

“You’re telling me,” she found herself saying, “that you joined the Thieves’ Guild—with very little training—and, thanks to this curse, you worked up through the ranks until the Gray Fox himself gave you his title, all within a matter of weeks.”

Herm turned and leaned forward onto the table, his arms crossed, fully committing himself to look deeply into her eyes. His gaze, full of sincerity and mirth, seemed to have forgotten entirely its earlier burden. “Yes.”

“So,” she said, “You, Herm, a man who cannot remember much of his own past, are simultaneously the Hero of Kvatch,” she counted off on her fingers,  “the Arena Grand Champion, the Arch-Mage of the Mages’ Guild, the Master of the Fighter’s Guild, among the elite of the Dark Brotherhood,  _ and _ the Gray Fox?”

He nodded along, picking up almost seamlessly where she left off. “Divine Crusader, Commander of the Knights of the Nine, Commander of the Blades, Champion of Cyrodill, and a couple of other ones like the Knights of the White Stallion in Leyawiin and the Knights of the Thorn in Cheydinhal.”

He caught her gaze, then laughed at her stupefied expression. “I wouldn’t believe me either, were I you.”

She shook her head, incredulous. “How?”

“I told you. I don’t know. There’s just something about me that people trust. They want to put me in charge of things.” He shook his head, then picked up his mug of ale from beside the cowl. “I don’t know why. I never keep up with any of them. I’ve done nothing to earn any of this, aside from being able to get out of dangerous situations without dying.”

Thoresia looked down at her blanket, then up at him again. “So what does a man do after he’s conquered half the world?”

Herm let out a sigh and looked out into the middle distance. She regretted the question when she saw the darkness settle on his mind again, as though she’d reminded him of whatever great weight he’d brought with him into her inn.

He looked at her, the glimmer of his laughter fading from his eyes. “Did you hear about the door that appeared in the lake near Bravil?”

“No,” Thoresia answered. “Particularly not if it’s recent. What news I do get is a month late at best.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s… fairly recent. An island appeared in the lake, and on the island a portal, through which people disappeared, and... came back changed, if they came back at all.”

“The sort of thing a hero might want to investigate,” she guessed.

Herm nodded again, his gaze having vanished back into the flames as she spoke.

“No one asked me to,” he said after a moment. “Typically—well, very nearly everything I’ve ever done has been at the request of someone else. Everything from the very day I was freed by the Emperor. When I heard about the door…” he frowned. “You know, I can’t remember exactly where I first heard about it…”

He trailed off into a silence that lasted longer than Thoresia expected, staring off into the flames. She placed her knitting project on the table and hesitated, looking into the blank eyes of the iconic cowl sitting there.

After a little while, she looked up to Herm again, who still hadn’t spoken, lost in thought. She sat up, leaning onto the table.

“Herm?” she asked.

It took a moment, but he broke his reverie in the fire and met her eyes. “Hmm?”

“You went into the door in the lake?”

He looked down at the table, then as a sort of afterthought, picked up the cowl and stowed it away again. When he sat up, he said, “Yes.”

Thoresia leaned back in her seat and picked up her knitting supplies. That ‘yes’ sounded like the beginning of a story, but not the kind of story that could be pulled out by prompts and questions. It was the kind of story that had to be given the space to come out all on its own.

Herm took a breath and said, “How much do you know about the Deadric Princes?”

She shook her head. “Their names, their domains. Not much more than that.”

“The doorway in the lake led to the Shivering Isles, the homeland of the Deadric Lord Sheogorath.”

She tried to suppress the shiver that crawled down her spine as she listened, eyes on her knitting. Of all the Princes, Sheogorath, Lord of Madness, was perhaps the one that scared her the most. Violence, hunting, even raising the dead all made sense to her, after a fashion, but if there was one thing that truly frightened her more than anything else in this world, it was the idea that she could become unable to discern fantasy from reality.

She hadn’t realized how long the silence had stretched until Herm spoke again. “You know, this curse I have, where everyone likes me and promotes me at the completion of  _ any _ successful venture, it sort of applies to Deadric Princes too. I mean, they don’t appoint me as their generals or anything, but if I make the right offering and then do just one task that’s asked of me, they’ll give me priceless artifacts that should really go to someone more devoted than me—at the very least, someone who properly worships them.”

Thoresia glanced over at him in shock, but realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. The Emperor-serving Arch-Mage-slash-Grey-Fox could very well do anything he liked, including a couple side deeds for Deadric Princes.

“I had already done that for Lord Sheogorath at this point, actually. Hells, I’d done everything there is to  _ do _ at this point—that’s part of why I went in. Well, I went in there, and eventually I met him, and despite the fact that he didn’t seem to remember me, he told me I was perfect for some plan of his. People are always telling me that, that I’m the only one who can help them.” Herm shook his head in disbelief. “It’s been a year now and I still don’t understand it. I know I’m good at things, but surely I’m not the optimal choice for  _ everything _ that needs to get done.”

She met his gaze and shrugged. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, holding up her knitting project, “I’d really rather not let you knit for me.”

He looked at the burgeoning blanket, then erupted into laughter. “I appreciate it,” he told her between chuckles. “Though I don’t doubt it would be easy for me to learn.”

“You’ve never knitted? Do you buy everything you own?”

“Buy, or…” he half-shrugged, with an embarrassed smile. “Take.”

_ The Grey Fox,  _ she thought. “Well, I appreciate you paying for your room, at least.”

Herm chuckled again, his eyes landing on the fire. “Well… I helped him. Lord Sheogorath. I played my part in his plan.”

For a man who had spent time with the Prince of Madness, Herm was pretty well put-together—unless none of the things he was saying were true. Thoresia made a mental note to check up on them the next time someone came in, ask them to describe the Arena Grand Champion, the Hero of Kvatch, or the Master of the Fighter’s Guild. “What was his plan?” she asked.

“To die.”

Thoresia looked up at them, her _ clacking _ stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Apparently, the Prince of Madness turns into the Prince of Order every so-many eras and destroys the Shivering Isles. Sheogorath wanted to end the cycle by promoting me into somebody who can kill him once he turned into Jyggalag.”

She found herself staring. “You killed a Daedric Prince? Even Molag Bal didn’t exactly die, from what I heard.”

Herm nodded. His voice was straight and somber. “Yes. I killed a Daedric Prince.”

After a moment, she leaned forward, holding her needles in one hand. “What is it?”

“The title he gave me, so that I would have the resources to kill him…” He let out a single, dry laugh, more like a huff. “Prince of Madness.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, spreading his arms. “Daedric Lord Sheogorath, ruler of the Shivering Isles and Lord of Mania and Dementia. That’s the title he gave me.”

She watched him, unable to wrap her head around it.

“I don’t know how to rule. I don’t know how to be a Daedric Prince. I never asked for this curse, to be good at surviving things, to be trusted by everybody and optimal for every quest. How can I be the Divine Crusader and Lord Sheogorath at the same time? I just…”

He let out a deep sigh. He glanced over at her, then leaned his head into his hand.

“Sorry. I guess I can be too honest after all.”

Thoresia shook her head, her hands dropping into her lap as she watched him closely. “I stand by what I said, Herm. You can’t be too honest.”

“I just wish… I don’t know. I wish I could know who I am. I think I’m… I’m done with all this. Shivering Isles… that was the last straw. I can’t handle this way of living anymore. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done hoping that there was some answer at the end of it, but there’s been nothing other than titles and money. I’m no closer to knowing what all this means than I was when I woke up in that prison cell.”

“Then maybe you’re asking the wrong question,” she suggested, resting one arm on the table.

Herm looked over at her, confusion in his eyes.

“There may not be a meaning to any of this. You weren’t promised an answer, were you? Who says that it’s possible to know what happened to you before that day?”

“Other people can remember that far back, so why shouldn’t I?”

“Other people aren’t Daedric Princes.”

He stiffened at that, staring at her like she’d uttered a terrible blasphemy. She ducked her head in a placating sort of way.

“All I mean is, you don’t need to know where you’re from to know who you are. You don’t need to listen to any curse, either. You only need to have a sit-down and a good honest talk to figure that out, whether that talk’s with someone else or just with yourself. In any case, how could you think that helping the Fighter’s Guild would wind up telling you where you were born?”

“I… well, I don’t know.”

“Listen to your heart,” she said, leaning back again in her seat.  “It might be quiet at first, the voice hard to find if you’ve never heard it before, but you’ll hear it eventually. Listen to what it has to say.”

Herm frowned at the fire for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that she almost couldn’t make it out.

“What if I don’t like what it has to say?”

She pressed her lips together, then stood up. She picked up his cloak from the drying-rack and turned it over, then faced him, the rain battering at the walls around them. 

“I’ll look after this,” she said. “Why don’t you get a good night’s rest?”

He nodded to her, then stood up, taking the rucksack from the floor. He turned to leave, then stopped himself, looking at her.

“Thank you, Honest Thoresia,” he said. “For… letting me talk. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“The morning, then,” she said, and he climbed the old staircase. She realized after a moment that she couldn’t hear his footfalls, despite the fact that the steps were made of a sagging, groaning wood.

She sat down to work on her knitting. She’d wait until his cloak was dry before tucking in herself.


End file.
